


a resolution

by Christel_Jenkins



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-07
Updated: 2015-07-07
Packaged: 2018-04-08 04:23:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4290702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Christel_Jenkins/pseuds/Christel_Jenkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Little surreal drabble I needed after Rorshach's untimely end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a resolution

never justice.

only greasy, flea-bitten lives adding up into a bare total of bare none accomplished.

he'd made no difference. the world was unclean still for its alleged cleanser had been similarly corrupt.

now vanquished. now defeated.

it had clung—humanity. but no more. no longer.

walter sighs.

he peers about—it is warm here,  
perched as he is upon a park bench. (though deep within walter knows this is not as it appears.)

the park is soundless and untainted. there is no vile trash or graffiti. no broken beer bottles or soggy newspapers.

there are no people.

here—it is idyllic.

for what length of time he has been (sitting? living? breathing? floating?) walter knows not. he only knows the methodical pondering of his failures. his life's work of disappointment.

the sweet-toothed red haired child knows,  
he had never impressed rorschach.

nor lived to the standards of hard-ridged morality and incorruptible honor. the stark and strong symbol—good and evil, embodied exactly.

no, he'd never won.

a puddle of clear, perfect water had sometime before pooled at his feet. he sees there:

rorschach has vanished.

all persona locked within the fedora, scarf, and pinstripes had disappeared among the wind and snow.

here—in this impossible park, he is exposed—mask less—walter j. kovacs.

accompanying his self-berating, however, there is an alien sense of tranquility.

he feels without qualm.  
without danger.  
without suspicion.

here—it is finally safe.

though the remorse soaks deep into his bones,  
this place is entirely pleasant.

casting eyes away from the reflection, he studies the bench, musing absentmindedly:

_hope daniel and miss. juspeczyk survived._

_though, are weak, persuaded by veidt—_

_still, masks... friends._

_journal should have been discovered_

he pauses.

_...by now?_

the time here is indecipherable.  
searching his memory proves useless. he cannot grasp onto minutes, hours, days.

only thoughts. only the quiet.

he could have been here for years already.  
maybe.

walter sighs.

suddenly, reverberating distantly,  
are peals of waterfall laughter, simultaneously near and far.

gaily, she approaches: a hop-skip canter in pink skirts.  
white-yellow pigtails swing amiably above a pale oval face.

_is... girl. is... child._

walter remains frozen, statuesque; he chokes on his own alarm.

blaire roche stands before him, her big blue eyes full.  
of purity.  
of acceptance.  
of trust.

“hello sir,” she begins, a precious smile shimmering.

“wanna play hopscotch?”

_is here. is whole. she.... blaire._

walter stares. he marvels at the proffered little hand, white and unmarred.

abruptly, his life streams through in mental technicolor.  
it is all razor-sharp edges. all gritty realism, relentless self-control, bitter abuse.

never stop. never rest.  
never compromise.  
never surrender.

but could a place possibly exist...

a world plain and simple, without filth and treachery...

where everything is unbroken and right?

it would be here, if at all.

finally, walter knows where he is.

“would like that,” he says softly.  
he grasps her hand.

at the last, peace.


End file.
